


How the Tables have Turned

by Asauna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Human!Sherlock, M/M, Vamp!John, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asauna/pseuds/Asauna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock begins to take note of a few oddities that are wrapped around his newer flatmate. He'd already noticed the fact he was enjoying his domestic bliss after being invalided from Afghanistan, had noted that he rather enjoyed the cool air of London so he could take pleasure in his oversized jumper, but.. Oh, the fact he were taking random women and men from the streets for short amount of time and appearing with a glow about him? That was new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Things Just got Interesting

**Author's Note:**

> Just something I'm starting. Not a fan of how it came out, but hopefully, future chapters will be better, and something more interesting. Have any questions, lemme know. C:

It’d been three months since he and Sherlock had been introduced by Mike Stamford. And honestly, in the first forty-eight hours of knowing the blighter, he had known that this was the greatest thing that could have happened to him now. After losing his ability to fight in the war that had taken so much of his humanity away and left him an empty shell, he thought there would be nothing left for him. But Sherlock Holmes made sure that that fate never befell him. Yes, there were still times when he had to give in, and times that he had to work his way around Sherlock in order to keep the rest of his reality away from the others amazing mind, but he was quite content with the arrangement otherwise. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault he would have to busy himself a few times a week, claiming he had a late shift or was going to the pub with some old rugby friends. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault that he would be gone for a few hours at a time, choosing his next victim. No, it was an effort of the war that he had lost himself to. He had seen many things over the years of his tours, and had experienced events that many would never know about. And that was exactly how John Watson wanted to keep it. 

Tonight in particular he’d claimed he’d be off to the pub, meeting with a woman from work. Sherlock cast him off, claiming John to be a waste of his time as he were in the middle of a case before he stormed out of the flat in something of a tizzy. He was glad that Sherlock didn’t continue to question his motives instead opting to huff and make his escape. John wasn’t in the mood to bother wasting time with reasons why he couldn’t cancel tonight. He’d given three different transfusions in work today. More work than one would obviously expect for an A&E doctor, but they had been short-staffed and he’d been called all over the hospital. The joys of knowing as much as he did… 

He was so thirsty tonight; so hungry and so needy. Normally, he’d go to the pub, get a few drinks, chat up a girl and head off with her. But tonight, he didn’t really think he’d make it to the pub in the first place. Oh, he hated getting this bad. He hated being a danger to everyone around, including himself. He hated risking the lives of people left completely unaware of who, or rather, what they were walking past. No, that one was anemic. That one didn’t eat correctly. That one was on drugs and that one was too drunk. What was wrong with these people? Diseased, diseased, weak, drug addict, could no one be a suitable meal upon the str- Oh. One woman. There was one woman nearby. She was dirty blond, young, looking to be in a rush. Running, almost. He could smell the adrenaline rushing through her. Nervous, excitement, fear, and a few other things. As she came to pass him, he reached out, catching her and swinging her around towards the wall of the building to his left. She smelled absolutely wonderful. 

The woman let out a small shout of irritation, anger and something akin to anxiety, about to break him off of her though she paused at looking at him. Oh, he looked sick almost. Something in her mind seemed to still as he looked towards her, blue eyes almost to glow with what appeared to be warmth. An intoxicating comfort slipped over her, all of her concerns gone, only seeming to worry of the man before herself. Oh, he looked hurt. “Poor thing.” She breathed softly, looking down to his bum leg that was, in all honesty, feeling just fine that night. But that was just it; that was how he worked. Calming his victim down, letting them feel at ease and allowing them the comfort of safety. Then they could give into his proper charms. He was the type that needed aid. He was the lost soul, the kicked dog, the ‘whatever you feel sorry for’, depending on the person. He could turn the worst, cold-hearted man into the gentlest around if need be. It were as if he were pushing his own warm-heartedness onto his unsuspecting victims, and John was damnably alright with that. 

“Indeed.” He eased, his fingers gently pressing into the woman’s side and moving to urge her along gently. “Help me home, would you?” He asked, the woman nodding a bit and slinging an arm softly around him, starting to lead the man into the alley that would take them another street over. “So sorry about it, dear. Perhaps it would be best if I stayed the night with you.” She offered up, smiling fondly to the man who smiled back. “No, I can manage. But perhaps.. You can stay a short while.” John mused fondly as he pulled her to a stop, confusion touching over her as he pushed her to the wall gently. He could hear her blood, could feel it beneath his lips as he mouthed at her neck softly, and he could taste it before he even broke the skin. God he needed this. He needed it so badly. His throat burned in protest to waiting, feeling the woman’s fingers combing through his hair, trying to ease him to relax and claiming that they could easily fool around at her flat. 

The man took this chance to latch onto her throat, teeth growing to their abnormal length as if they were suddenly being unsheathed. It was only a second later that the warm nectar he had yearned for touched his lips, tainting him with the sin of what he truly was. The woman against the wall hissed at the initial bite though let out a shaky breath at the feeling, a moan of sorts almost slipping from her. A trick, Jon had learned after a few goes at this, was that there was a way to control the victim chosen. It was almost like a poison put into the body from the wound created that would provide a sense of pleasure as opposed to pain. It helped keep people quiet instead of crying out, though it wasn’t something that happened automatically. He had to will it and disperse the drug of sorts himself, in a manner. 

It wasn’t too much longer until the woman was on the verge of passing out, John drawing back with something akin to reluctance and rolling his tongue over her throat. The markings would be gone in a short while, she would wake with no recollection and she would continue on with whatever she had been doing before. No harm, no foul. That was how John hunted. Killing left a scene, it left a mess, and it left trouble. Let the victim live; let them continue on, and everyone would have a good day. The man’s tongue touched over his lower lip to catch any of the sweet essence he had missed, gently sitting the woman down upon the cold ground between the bins, knowing she’d be out of harms way here. And with another breath, he turned and started out of the alley, being sure he was calm as could be. He had just eaten, managed to get out of helping Sherlock with what he felt was an already closed case, and would go home and make some tea. Now that sounded wonderful.

Just as John wondered what type of tea he would make as he moved to cross the street, not too far off from home and thus not needing a cab, he froze as he heard his name called by a voice that he wanted nothing to do with at the moment. Oh god, it was Sherlock. He let out a slow breath, relaxing and turning around to see the man approaching him with a light frown upon his lips. He could read Sherlock like a book, and knew the man was attempting to do the same with him.  
“What are you doing here? The pub is fourteen blocks west.” He stated quickly, John putting his hands up as if to defend himself. “Got into a bit of a row with my mate so I thought I’d walk it off. I was just headed home for some tea, would you like any?” He offered up as if the consulting detective would be joining him in the trip.

“No, I’ll skip the tea, as will you. I was tracking a woman, blonde hair, medium height. She’s the key to the case, and she’s somehow disappeared.” He said, the obvious irritation touching over his features. “I calculated where she would go, and I was sure to meet her there, though she never arrived. She wouldn’t have had the cash for a taxi, and her heels kept her from dashing off too quickly.” He explained, though John quickly began to put two and two together.

Oh. He’d bitten Sherlock’s suspect. 

Great. 

“A woman like that, pink skirt, white shirt, yeah?” He asked, clearing his throat and snuffling a bit in the cold air of the London night. Sherlock’s eyes snapped back to him, frowning. “Yes, what did you see? Where did you see her?” He asked as he stepped towards John, quite frankly invading his personal space. John, as one would have it, might have only just fed but he could still feel that eternal hunger gnawing at him, and oh how tempting Sherlock looked. He was still on his own high, it would seem. One he kept hidden quite well. Bowing out a bit, he cleared his throat and gestured on behind the other. This was a dangerous game he was playing, and it was best to let the other continue on until the doctor could get his head on straight. 

“Down there, she was running off somewhere. Didn’t see which way she went though. Might’ve turned a corner or something.” John said, stuffing his hands into his pockets now as he refused to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Right, I’ll be off then. Text me if you need something.” John offered, turning and starting off, still feeling the detective’s eyes boring into the back of his head. Again, a cup of tea would help him unwind, maybe a shower, and he could go back to being normal for a few more days. 

Sherlock on the other hand eyed John a few moments as the man made his way along the street, frowning to himself. There was something odd about John. He almost seemed to be on edge, but what for? Certainly the argument with his friend wouldn’t have put him into such a mood, after all. Sherlock had seen John after spats before. That was not how he’d usually describe John’s reactions to them. Taking a slow breath, knowing he could analyze the other later, he turned briskly and started in the direction John had pointed in. This woman could be hiding in a shop or in a flat. She could’ve called someone to pick her up, could have taken her shoes off and bolted, or she could still be running around obliviously. He’d wasted quite enough time on his flatmate and would have to make up for it.  


It didn’t take the man long to find the discarded woman who was now staggering around on the sidewalk, trying to figure out where she was and what had happened, not even aware enough to sober up when Sherlock had grabbed at her wrists to keep her from running. He looked her over, trying to understand what had happened. She hadn’t been hit by a car and tossed aside, seeing as how she was free of injury. No sexual assault since her clothes were intact. She hadn’t been drinking prior to their chase- Oh. What was this? He spotted those small dots that were healing up rather quickly, pressed to where her jugular was, reaching his thumb over the odd wounds. 

“That bloke,” she babbled on, “What’d he do to me? That fucking arse. I’ll teach him who he’s dealing with.” She groaned weakly, leaning into Sherlock as she was unable to properly support herself yet. Seemed the woman had roused herself too early. “And what ‘bloke’ would that be?” Sherlock questioned idly, pulling out his phone to text Lestrade their location, listening to her attempt to get her words out, though the only thing he got out of her was ‘blue eyes’ and ‘bum leg’. Huh, that sounded like John. But he appeared to be in top physical shape today- And what could he have done to push this state of being upon the woman? Odd.. Very odd indeed, actually. First John was anxious around him, now the woman who seemed to be lost in the head was describing him, implicating he had something to do with her.

Of course John hadn’t gone to the pub, Sherlock knew. He didn’t smell anything of liquor. So why here, and what exactly happened to this woman? John Watson just became a bit more interesting, it appeared.


	2. Keep your hands to yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is quick to catch on to John's little game, but does John notice?

A few days slipped past since “the incident” as John preferred to call it. When Sherlock had come home a few hours later, he didn’t seem as if he were expecting anything. He did claim that he’d found the woman in an odd state, though was quick to send her off with Lestrade, claiming she must have been prone to some form of illness that John didn’t care to recall. All that mattered was that he didn’t have Sherlock interrogating him, and that was that. But now, it seemed he’d have to go off and repeat his process. Claiming that he were going off on a date, the man slipped outside into the misty evening, swiftly hailing a cab before stepping inside. He could have sworn that, as he pulled away from the flat, he’d seen the front door open. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson had popped inside to grab something before going back into the café? 

Regardless, he relaxed into the back of the cab until he arrived at the pub, thinking over what his choices would be tonight. Slim pickings, as it were Wednesday. But that was the best. Anyone there would be there because they wanted to go out but had nowhere to go, wanted to be seen without being heard, or just there to have a good time. He always did fancy a woman with a book in hand. They were amusing in their own way, and he was fond of a bit of smarts. That was, quite possibly, the reason he stuck with Sherlock despite the younger’s desperate need of an attitude adjustment.

He paid the driver before ducking into the small pub, wanting to get away from the misty air. He hoped it would lift before he headed home. Or, as his luck would have it, it wouldn’t. Adjusting his coat a bit, he peered around briefly. Two men together, a few women at a table, a man alone, a woman alone and- Oh, a woman with a book. And one that he’d read. Perfect. He ordered himself a beer and some wine for her, seeing that she had an empty glass on the table beside her. He slipped his way to the table with a light grin that most would find amiable. “Hello there.” John said, gently setting the glass down before her. Glasses, light brown hair, red lipstick and a few bracelets. She wanted attention, but didn’t know how to get it then. Christ, he was sounding like Sherlock more and more, he came to realise. John needed to get a new hobby of his own.

As John began to enjoy his conversation, asking the woman about the book that she claimed to have read twice over already, a tall man slipped into the pub. No drink, merely making his way to a booth. He could see the table John was sitting at, but from this angle, John would have to be quite the contortionist to see him in response. So the surgeon had been telling the truth about seeing a girl, but it was no one from the hospital, Sherlock was sure. If anything, she was more secretarial. Dull. What did John see in these women who lived such tedious lives? He scoffed some to himself, moving to pull out his phone. It was a matter of playing the waiting game, and that was something he could be exceptionally good at when the time called for it. 

John and the woman spoke for nearly three hours, Sherlock beginning to question just how patient of a man he had to be in order to learn what was going on, though he paused and slid more into the booth as the two left the table and wandered outside. Neither of them were drunk. They’d only had the one drink. She went along willingly. He waited a moment before standing as well, flipping up the collar of his long coat and stuffing his hands into his pockets before following along. 

He wouldn’t normally follow John on his dates, but without a case and a tad bit of confusion to the unanswered question about the other night with what had happened to the woman, he wanted to see what it was that the man actually did in his free time. His companion didn’t appear to notice his presence, which was grand for his bit of luck, watching as the two walked a ways down the street. John had an arm around the woman’s waist, and she hugged an arm back, but it almost appeared as if she were trying to support him. But why? John was walking without issue, he were in top shape still, so what would his need truly be for the offered aid? 

They continued to walk, he noted, turning a corner. Perhaps to her flat? No, she may have lived nearby, but with those shoes, she wouldn’t have walked here. Her ankles would have complained the whole time. No, just an alley, considerably like the one he’d found the woman at last time. Staying a block away, he eyed the entryway, quickly pulling up the map upon his phone. That was a dead-end. So he was staring at the only way in or out. With fingers twitching for the need of a cigarette, Sherlock stood diligently in the humid air of the London night, watching and waiting. Perhaps fifteen minutes later, he heard quite a rude sound coming from the alley, John emerging a few moments after that with a rather pleased look upon his face. He almost appeared to be _glowing_. But why? 

It was then that Sherlock came to realise that the woman hadn’t followed. She hadn’t gone her own way and there wasn’t even a sound from the alley. Waiting until John had gone into a cab, he wandered off to the small, dead-end path and peered inside. The woman, as he could see, was settled up against the wall in a polite fashion. Clothes intact, body safe and unharmed, except.. Oh, the same markings upon her neck. Sherlock touched his gloved thumb over what appeared to be fresh entry wounds though no blood stained them as if they’d been washed –or licked– clean. 

But how could this be? What could it possibly mean, and how was it even done? Taking his phone, he quickly took photos of the woman and the marking left upon her before taking a step back. Just as he brought himself up, he received a text from John, raising a brow at how innocent it was, as if John hadn’t just abandoned some woman in the middle of the night in an alleyway. ‘On my way home. Was going to Tesco for milk. Do you need anything? – JW’. 

Ignoring the text, Sherlock turned and started for the main street, leaving the woman where she lay. If this truly were John’s work, as he could see no other explanation for it, he wouldn’t have left her somewhere she were vulnerable. You would never know she was in there unless you were purposefully searching, after all, her body hidden away by the bins. 

\------------------------------------------------ 

The rest of the night, Sherlock locked himself away in his room. He ignored the sound of John coming home, of calling for him and searching for him around the flat. He ignored the sound of the man working around in the kitchen with the new groceries, making tea, and tidying up after himself before going up to his room to retire for the evening. 

Ignoring John and with laptop in hand, he searched. He eyed the image of the woman he’d taken upon his phone with curiosity, typing in the ‘symptoms’. Pale skin, short of breath, the wounds themselves. And of course, it were nothing but vampires and the occasional animal attack. Hollywood movies, stories, sightings, and the like. And the fiction was all dreadfully boring for him to skim through. But there was one article, it was a self-made page, yes. It wasn’t anything official, but it almost appeared to be as if someone were claiming that vampires were real. That they weren’t just creatures of myth, and it claimed different ways to try and test the person. Blood being the obvious option, testing their sight and smell, as well as a few other things. John appeared to be normal though. It’d been three months after all. He would have caught on if the man were hypersensitive. 

He did this for a while, poking around the internet until a different option came up, growing annoyed of looking through fan sites of old tele shows and novels, tired of looking through teenage girls shouting that they were vampires and just born into the wrong bodies or whatever trash that was. But then there were those occasional pages. How to kill a vampire, how to stay safe if you think one is near, how to tell if someone’s a vampire, etc etc. “They’re just creatures of myth.” He breathed out, frowning and tossing the computer aside as he laid back on the bed, churning through all of the information given. The only way he could know for sure would to be an experiment. “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be truth, mustn’t it?” He breathed out, scoffing at his own notion. Preposterous. All of this, it was absolutely ridiculous. 

He lay there a while more, trying to think of a way to figure this out. Oh. Oh, he knew. He could look. He could observe John in his sleep. The mass media claimed Vampires were awake in the night, afraid of sunlight and were weak to garlic. For John, all of these things were wrong. So for him to be a “creature of the night”, he would have to at the very least have those fangs that each of such a race was said to have. 

That would stop his foolish thoughts, he knew. So with that, Sherlock leapt from his bedding and slipped from his room and into the main hallway, wandering up the steps. He knew which steps to avoid and which wooden strips to watch out for. The least noise made, the better. Let sleeping dogs lie and all that. 

Slowly, he slipped into the man’s room, eying John. He looked so flushed and content. Healthy even. Sherlock earlier thought he were beginning to come down with a cold as he did on occasion, but apparently, that had been the wrong idea. Sherlock snuck over to the bed, pausing a moment. This was ridiculous. This was insane. John was not a mythical creature, those women were not his victims, and he was nothing more than an invalided army surgeon. John was too… Normal for anything like that. 

But he had to quiet his mind one way or another. So with a slow, heavy breath, Sherlock reached his nimble fingers through the dim of the room that was illuminated by the street lights outside, gently pulling the man’s lips apart. John uttered softly in protest though his mouth did slip open as he returned to his sleeping state, Sherlock glaring at the other for stirring though his thumb pressed slowly over John’s canines. Nope, they were normal. Normal as could be. There, now that that was settled- No. Wait. In some of the sites, it were said that it took blood to trigger the change, correct? The urge and violent need for it? Sherlock looked around quickly, frowning to himself. He was really about to do this, wasn’t he? 

As there was nothing in close range, he carefully scraped his thumb against John’s upper right canine, being mindful not to rouse the man though was sure to cause the tiniest of drops to form. As opposed to waking, John muttered again, which forced his tooth into the others thumb a bit more, drawing more of Sherlock’s essence. 

Then it was like clockwork.

John shuddered faintly, grinning lazily as his head bobbed upwards, taking Sherlock’s thumb more into his mouth. His teeth, though Sherlock did not want to believe his eyes, changed. It looked as if they were forcing themselves out of their mouth, though he realized they’d only grown longer when they stopped. That would make it easier to access the larger arteries in the throat, Sherlock’s mind chimed instantly. He scolded himself, not entirely sure what to do now. John had a good hold of his thumb, and any quick movement now might wake the blighter. God knows how he would be able to explain this. 

But just as soon as John appeared to be enjoying the taste, a look of discontent touched over him, turning his head away and uttering disapproval. Sherlock was quick to draw his hand back, looking over the nice little knick he had now, wanting to feel almost… Offended. Did he not suit what John would consider his preference? No, wait, this was absurd. All of this. 

The man let out a weak breath, turning on his heel and walking out of the room. He had some research to do, it would seem. As he shut the door a tad more loudly then he’d opened it despite heading down the stairs in silence, a moan slipped from the sleeping man who stirred a bit. He had this awful taste in his mouth, but the scent of Sherlock wafted around him. Quite a lovely smell, that was. Well, when the man chose to shower in a timely fashion. And it was that scent that eased him back to sleep, his teeth slipping back to their previous position, pressing his cheek into his pillow.


End file.
